


Can't afford the bliss in ignorance

by Trojie



Series: Pity [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Pity-fuck, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-17
Updated: 2011-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-15 17:58:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Arthur thinks he's in love with Eames, that's not Eames's problem. Arthur's a big enough boy to take care of himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't afford the bliss in ignorance

**Author's Note:**

> Pity-fuck! scenario written for Photoclerk who told me she didn't want to read it, no, really, she totally didn't. Oh bb, you should know better than to dangle these things in front of me. Beta-read by the intrepid Ineptshieldmaid.

Eames knows Arthur has a problem.

Not that kind of a problem. Not, in fact, any kind of problem you might think of from looking at him. No. The kind of problem you keep hidden away so no-one ever guesses. Eames knows a bit about those kinds of problems, he's not exactly been immune in his life so far.

Arthur's problem is about the fact that he's confused, in Eames's opinion. Cobb's spun him around so many times, dumped him in the shit so many times, played with his loyalty so many times, that it's no wonder Arthur's got confused. He has to be confused, because he's got it in his pretty little head that he's in love with Eames. He doesn't say it. He doesn't say much at all, except on jobs, and then all he'll let out is instructions and the odd quip. He's trying very hard, in fact. But Eames is good at people.

Poor Arthur. You team up with an unstable bugger like Cobb, and sooner or later anyone you can rely on in a tight situation becomes a friend, and maybe Eames is a little too quick to smile when working with Arthur, a little too reliant on flirting, because he knows flirting works with Arthur, and then …

Not that Eames feels sorry for Arthur, exactly, because he's not a fainting blossom by any stretch of the imagination: Arthur's a big boy and if he wants to delude himself into thinking he needs someone else, that's his business. It's laughable, really. Arthur doesn't need anyone. Arthur is made of _steel_.

The question Eames has to deal with now though isn't anything more metaphysical than _I have Arthur in my lap. Do I, or don't I?_

'Is this going to ruin our working relationship?' he asks. Arthur's a bit drunk. Drunk enough to be pliant and more tactile than usual. Is it taking advantage if they want it and they're capable of visiting bloody retribution on you later if they decide they've changed their mind?

'Only if you let it,' Arthur replies, and leans in closer, the burgundy lining of his unbuttoned waistcoat brushing Eames's chest and the smell of bourbon heavy on his breath. 'Some of us are capable of keeping business and personal separate when we have to.'

Oh Arthur. You never were the best liar, thinks Eames. He should say no, _would_ say no, except for the look in Arthur's eyes that says _please_ despite the fact that his mouth never would. Arthur gets jerked around like a puppet on a string by enough people. Eames flirts with him as easy as he breathes. What's crueler? Arthur's asked for sex, and so Eames has two options - yes, or no. Either will hurt Arthur sooner or later.

It takes Eames a split second to decide to help him now, _have_ him now, and hurt him later. He reaches up and pulls Arthur down.

They're in Eames's hotel, in the little living space that borders the bedroom. All the curtains are open, showing off the city skyline at night around them, neon and streetlights casting odd, wavery lines of colour through the glass. The only light in here is a small table-top lamp, hopefully far enough away from the armchair they're sprawled in that no frantic elbows will knock it. Worming his hand into the back of Arthur's trousers, Eames decides he doesn't care even if they wreck the place, because Arthur's clipped and polished and perfect in all his actions, and he wants him in the chair and over the back of the sofa and on the floor, up against the window where anyone could see them, in the shower … everything. Because if he can, why shouldn't he?

Arthur's hands are slender and knowing, breezing through the fly on Eames's trousers with the same confidence he uses while picking cheap locks. It doesn't take long before they've managed to wriggle Eames's trousers and underpants off between them, and Eames decides he likes it like this - being half-naked with Arthur still mostly dressed in the glorious ruins of a three-piece suit.

'What do you want?' Eames murmurs up against Arthur's collarbone. 'It's your party.'

'I want to fuck you,' Arthur says hotly, looking Eames in the eyes a little too hard, a little too sincere. 'And you're going to let me.' And isn't that so very Arthur? Eames can feel the point man's fingers already running up the back of his thigh, both of them slumped together on the armchair so they touch everywhere from knees slotted in-between each other to where their collarbones collide. Arthur wants to fuck him? Eames will go along with that.

So they slide to the floor and Arthur's intention seems to be to plough Eames through it. One finger, slicked up with the lube Arthur had in his pockets because 'prepared for all foreseeable eventualities' is his mutant superpower, makes Eames grit his teeth; two fingers make him writhe. I's just the right side of not enough preparation, so they can feel the shape of each other through the thin barriers of skin and the latex of the condom Arthur rolls onto himself. Eames shoves up to get more, because you have to get past the part where it hurts (which is as much a life lesson as anything else), and tries to haul Arthur in closer, fighting his resistance.

'Dammit, Eames, just fucking give in,' Arthur growls, bracing himself over Eames's insistent body. 'You aren't going to win.'

But Eames always wins. He wins this by letting Arthur have his way, because Arthur's way is a hell of a prize: spine-melting, mind-bending; mind-melting, spine-bending … Eames likes sex and he likes it any way it comes if it's on his terms, and usually he likes everyone to be on the same page vis a vis walking away afterwards, but this --

Eames starts to feel dishonest even as he feels his orgasm creeping up on him. A dishonest thief, who would have thought? He does his best not to think of it any more. He comes with Arthur's hand on his cock and Arthur buried in him and stuttering physically, pushing deep like he wants to be fixed there, friction-welded tight into Eames.

After having his fingers clenched tight and bruising in bracketing Arthur's arse, Eames decides to kiss the fingertip-shaped marks better, sarcastically, which leads to Arthur spread out against the window, amidst all the flaps and tags and loose lapels of the remains of his suit, moaning like an angry, wanton thing as Eames eats him out with abandon, still not thinking. And after Arthur has panted and shuddered himself out against the glass, one hand fisted in the fabric of his trousers to catch all the evidence, he drags Eames up (with his messy hand) and kisses him -- oddly gently given what they've just done, how they've just been.

'Thanks,' he says.

'For what?' Eames asks, feigning a yawn and a shrug.

Arthur raises his eyebrow and rolls his eyes. 'I'm not an idiot,' he says, instead of answering the question. 'I know you don't feel the same way I do. I know this isn't the start of anything.'

Eames sighs. So it's come to this. It's be a lot easier if Arthur were oblivious or just … content to let lies lie, like sleeping dogs. 'Look, Arthur,' he says, dragging his fingers through his hair. 'Do you want to know what I think?'

'You're going to tell me whether I say yes or not,' Arthur shrugs, starting to put his ensemble back together. 'I'd rather we left it at 'thanks', but you've always got to have the last word, don't you.'

'I think you don't actually feel the way you think you do,' Eames says. He wanders back across the room to the chair, picking up his discarded clothes and getting back into them. He tosses Arthur his tie, removed long before they even started down the conversational road that led them here. 'I think you're just –'

'Just what? Lonely?' Arthur suggests, doing up the buttons of his fly, tie draped over one shoulder until he's ready for it. 'Unfulfilled by my terribly boring job? Traumatised by Cobb and all his angst?'

The look he levels at Eames as he does his belt up brooks no bullshit. Eames shakes his head, a little at a loss. 'Something like that.'

Arthur's fingers tangle in the tie, then amongst the buttons of his waistcoat. 'Not all of us are in love with the road, you know.' He does his jacket up now over the rest, all the smooth burgundy of the waistcoat's insides done up again and hidden beneath the neutral exterior. Eames could probably make a metaphor out of that if he could be bothered. 'The job, yeah, but not the road. Not being on the run. Not being _alone_ for the rest of our lives.'

'Oh, so you do acknowledge the job,' Eames says, perhaps a little harshly. 'So you're not after a white picket fence and two and a half spaniel puppies to piss on it, then?'

'Let's get one thing straight,' Arthur growls, suddenly a lot closer to Eames than Eames remembers. The proximity is threatening and almost arousing again at the same time. 'Nothing, nothing _ever_ , comes between me and the job.'

'Not even this?' asks Eames, gesturing at the lamp they did, in the end, manage to knock over, and the palm-prints on the window. 'You're going to be fine working with me from now on? You're going to be fine with …' He leaves it hanging, wondering what Arthur will mentally append to the sentence. Arthur doesn't say anything for a few seconds, then walks away from Eames, leaving a space where his body heat was. As he walks, he keeps talking.

'Eames, I've worked jobs with you where I've been shot, run over, left for dead, nearly dropped into limbo, chased by the cops, chased by the Mafia, and had to go into hiding for six months in Latvia. And I've felt like this about you through all of them, and I'm _still_ working with you.' He grabs his laptop case from where he'd left it by the door, and pauses. 'One pity-fuck isn't going to change that.'

When he leaves, he closes the door quietly and unobtrusively behind him, which is more of a dramatic exit than a violent slam could have ever been. Eames is left standing there, wondering if anything could ever hurt Arthur more than his own self-awareness.


End file.
